Kidnapped!
by Autumn Bells
Summary: John has enough troubles when he and Sherlock are kidnapped from their flat, but his problems only worsen when he realizes Sherlock has a massive concussion due to a blow to the head. Sherlock's incapacitated and it's all up to John to save the two of them from the horrors of slave traders. No slash.
1. A Troublesome Ride-Along

**Author's Note: This story will be full of Sherlock!Whump and Caring!Badass!John, guys! I'm excited to write it! Reviews push me along, so please review and enjoy. As always, I hope to do the character's justice.**

**Chapter 1**

**A Troublesome Ride-Along**

A low groan escaped John's throat and the faint feeling of nausea washed over him, but disappeared as soon as it came. For a few moments, everything was black and fuzzy, but he blinked away the blurred spots in his vision and John's thought process began working. The first thing he realized was that he was in a cage. Frantic and confused, John scrambled to the dark metal bars and gripped them, inhaling sharply at the chill that immediately attacked his spine.

Suddenly, the ground shook before he had a chance to observe the rest of his surroundings and he fell backwards on his bum. His first thought was an earthquake, but he was certainly not in an immobile vehicle. That was it. He was in a truck. In the back of a truck! In a cage, no less.

Taking advantage of the stillness of the vehicle, John went back to the edge of the cage and tried his best to peer through the bars. He scanned the rest of the huge moving tin to find that there were three other cages. Only one, John was able to tell, was empty. The cage next to his had a boy, no older than eighteen, and John felt a pang of anger to their captors. From the boy's position in the cage, John was certain he was asleep, possibly drugged. John crawled over to the other side of his cage to examine the remaining cage.

John's heart nearly jumped into his throat and he held his breath with wide eyes. The lifeless, limp body in the other cage was wearing the familiar coat and dark blue scarf; Sherlock. His friend was lying, stomach on the ground, with head turned away from John.

"Sher-!" John choked out in a breathless, quiet voice. "Sherlock!"

No answer. Not even a twitch. It was impossible to determine the consulting detective's condition from John's position. So that's why John thought back. He thought back to how this all happened and why exactly Sherlock looked injured to a fatal extent…

* * *

_O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0O_

_John treaded up the stairs into 221B, dragging a large bin behind him. _

"_Sherlock!" John's voice was angry, nearly frightening. "Sherlock!"_

_The doctor rolled the bin to the side of their couch and rubbed his eyes in a disapproving way. Within the bin was many different things; a towel, a small coffee table, a stool, and the wooden part of a chair._

"_What is it, John?" the consulting detective answered absent-mindedly. _

"_What is it?" John repeated in disbelief. "Why the hell is all my stuff in the waste bucket?"_

_Sherlock replied in a truthful way. "That's hardly all your things. I left your mouse alone. Alive and well."_

_John raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Mouse? I didn't have a mouse, Sherlock."_

_His friend replied quickly without much emotion at all. "Well, that's good, because I fed him to the stray cat outside."_

_John didn't even bother asking Sherlock if there were mice running throughout their flat, but he certainly did wonder why his things were tossed into the trash, so he asked, hoping to sound as patient as possible so that the detective would answer truthfully. _

"_I had to make room for my fort. I made it out of the cushions," Sherlock replied and slumped into the couch with the cushions still intact, right underneath the painted on smiley face. John took notice to the disarray of pillows scattered on the floor._

"_Are you, perhaps, a five year old, Sherlock?" When John realized he wasn't going to get an answer, he added, "So, then, where's the fort?" _

_Sherlock glanced out the window. "Got bored with it."_

"_Don't you have a missing person's case to work on?" John suggested hopefully, busying himself with the newspaper and eyed the article of the young man that had disappeared nearly three days ago. His girlfriend had visited 221B Baker Street for some desperate help. John frowned at the black and white picture of the boy and a twang of concern spiked his heart._

"_Boring." Sherlock hopped back to his feet and strutted around the flat. _

"_How can you say that?" John sounded sincere and he tried his best to get his friend to understand. "A man's life may be hanging in the balance of your boredom capacity."_

"_A man disappears off the streets in a crowded area," Sherlock explained quickly, "I've done this before. 'A Study in Pink', remember? Just phone Lestrade and tell him to interview all the taxi drivers."_

_John formed his mouth into a straight line, trying not to say anything he might regret. "Sherlock, you've interviewed the man's girlfriend already, right?" _

"_Yes, and she's not-" Sherlock was interrupted by the doorbell ringing not once, but twice. John released a heavy sigh and folded the newspaper and set it down on the replaced coffee table. _

"_We're not done here," John warned as he left their flat, much like how a mother would scorn her child. He trotted down the stairs faster as the bell continued to ring._

"_Hold on, hold on!" John called to the person who seemed all too eager to visit 221B. John reached out, grabbed the doorknob and turned it open. That was when Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, his eyes in opened wide in a frantic manner and his long legs were nearly sprinting down the stairs after the doctor._

"_John! Don't!" Sherlock cried, but the door was already opened and the sound of a gunshot rung and echoed in the small flat. John could've sworn he heard the bullet whizz by his ear. An arm had stuck through the small opening of the door with an automatic pistol in hand. Sherlock leapt from the fourth step and slammed the door shut, closing it on the arm with the weapon and a scream of pure pain ripped through the shocked, quiet scenery. _

_John was too surprised and slow to move how a soldier should, so Sherlock had to take control. He grabbed John's wrist and they both darted upstairs._

"_What the hell is going on?" John asked, composing himself as Sherlock shut and locked the door to their flat up the stairs._

"_Richard Brooke's girlfriend," Sherlock explained between breaths. "She's behind this. John, their-"_

_Sherlock was, again, interrupted by crashes against their door. John sprinted into his bedroom before Sherlock had a chance to continue his explanation. Truthfully, John didn't care much. All he knew was that someone was trying to kill them, so he retrieved his gun and loaded it with a fresh magazine. _

_He returned to the living room to find their door had been broken down and Sherlock was lying on the ground with a bloodied head. Three men were standing above his body, all three holding guns. From John's personal experience, he knew Sherlock hadn't been shot through the head. There was too much blood to conclude to that. He must've been knocked unconscious by a strike with the gun. John nearly winced at the thought of the headache Sherlock would have to wake up to._

"_Come quietly and we won't kill you," one man said with a light chuckle and took a step forward. John immediately raised his pistol and trained it at the man's heart. _

"_Why not kill us in the first place?" John asked, his voice steady and convincing. John wasn't scared. He was an army soldier. He lived for moments like these. He was focused on getting him and Sherlock out of there and treating Sherlock's wounds._

_The man answered and gestured behind John. "Boss doesn't like broken merchandise." _

_John spun around at the sound of a rifle being cocked and before he had a chance to react, a dart shot out of the barrel and his world faded to black._

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0O

The truck abruptly stopped and John, having had his face pressed up against the bars to come into contact with Sherlock, tumbled backwards, hitting his own head on a loose bar. He winced at the pain and inhaled sharply through his nose.

The doctor, through the metal that separated him and the outside world, heard muffled voices of a few men and one woman. His eyes darted around, desperately looking for something that would get him out. However, his eyes made contact with the young man in one of the remaining two cages. That was him! Richard Brooke! The missing person. John recalled Sherlock telling him that Brooke's girlfriend was the puppet master. John was certain the female voice he heard was hers.

Suddenly, a bright light ripped apart the dimly lit tin cage. John had to squint and use his hand as an umbrella as to not become blinded. Obviously, it was day time. It was nighttime when they were captured, meaning it was most likely the early morning of the next day. John soon realized that the back of the truck was opening and it revealed one woman and two men. One man was missing from the lot.

"Wake-y, wake-y, boys!" the woman called out. However, only John and the young man responded. Sherlock was still very much unconscious. John took notice to the woman's nice clothes and jewelry. "Are you awake, Richie?"

John turned his head to find that Brooke was awake and nodded in reply. He seemed all too frightened to form words.

"Why are you doing this?" John asked, unafraid, as usual. He took great pride in that fact. The times on the battlefield and in Sherlock's company had hardened the army doctor and he wasn't going to squeal because a few tough looking men and one, prissy woman had taken Sherlock and him hostage.

"Your friend was onto us. I'm surprised you still don't know," the woman giggled and lightly bit her index finger, almost as a mocking gesture.

"Don't know what?" John asked steadily and gripped the cage's bars. As the woman ordered one of the men to unlock Sherlock's cage, she looked over at the doctor with liquid, silky blue eyes; taunting and menacing.

"Why, we're slave traders, of course," she answered with a smile.


	2. Houdini Would Be Proud

**Author's Note: Thanks to those of you who have followed/favorite-ed my story! I worked real hard on it! Again, chapters will be posted up much sooner if I have the proper motivation (reviews!). Enjoy and I hope to do the character's justice.**

**Chapter 2**

**Houdini Would Be Proud**

"Come now, boys! I don't have all day!" the woman commanded, opening her sun umbrella and placing it over her head. She pushed her sunglasses up with her index and middle finger, looking very sophisticated and wealthy to be a slave trader.

While one man was undoing the cage, the other one was shoving Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get his attention. John almost yelled something in a blind fury at the way they treated his friend, but he kept his mouth shut in fear of what they might do afterwards and slunk back further into his cage.

"He ain't awake, boss!" the muscular, dumb-sounding one informed the woman. He then grabbed Sherlock head, which proved he had a very large hand, and lifted it up, pulling on his black, curly hair. "Is it dead?"

John bit his lip at what the different position of Sherlock's face revealed; he looked deathly pale and his mouth was slightly open. John wasn't able to see his eyes, but he saw some dried blood plastered to his right cheek. That was when John couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore.

"Please! He needs medical attention!" John kneeled to the edge of his cage, as he wasn't able to stand in the confined area. "I'm a doctor, please let me check him."

The woman flashed her eyes over to John and smiled. "Medical attention? What a time-consuming idea." She then looked over at the man who had opened the cage. "Turner." She gestured to the other side of the truck. John could nearly hear the thundering beats of his heart, echoing in his ears.

Turner left John's line of sight, but returned within moments with a bucket, looking to be rather heavy. With a grunt, Turner threw the contents within the bucket onto Sherlock's body, soaking him to the bone. John wasn't even sure if it was water, but it was certainly some liquid. John could hear a very faint cough and Sherlock's fingers twitched.

"Ah, he lives," the woman laughed in a thick, Scottish accent. "Just needed a little motivation, yeah?"

"Sherlock," John said quietly, though the people present would be able to hear.

"I suppose," Sherlock muttered, barely audible with a hoarse, pained voice, "I suppose this means you weren't able to retrieve your pistol in time?"

John almost smiled at Sherlock's ability to lighten the situation, but he held it back, knowing his friend was in an incredible amount of misery. "Sorry, Sherlock."

Turner and the remaining man walked away and the truck moved slightly, telling John that they had gotten into the truck.

"Now that I know the merchandise is in working condition, we'll be off," the woman informed us. "It'll be about another hour or two, so get comfortable."

She then disappeared and the truck had begun moving again. For the first few moments, everything was silent.

"Mr. Brooke, I presume?" Sherlock questioned, his voice slurring in more ways than one.

"Don't talk, Sherlock," John warned, knowing full-well that his friend would like to interview the man in the other cage. "You'll have plenty of time later. Right now, you need to tell me how you're feeling." John moved closer to the side of his cage that was closer to Sherlock's. His friend had already sat up and was leaning against the bars in a weak manner.

"I can't see very well and, oh yes, I have a headache that wishes to destroy me," Sherlock explained sarcastically. John took a mental note that he had blurry vision; one of the first signs of a concussion. Sherlock then added quickly, "I feel very dizzy and nauseas. I have a concussion, John."

"Yes, you do. Do you know what that means?" John used his doctor tone of voice.

"You'll be a pain in my arse?"

"You can't go to sleep. You have a very severe concussion, Sherlock. You may fall into a coma if you fall asleep again," John warned in an even tone. However, he narrowed his eyes through the bars once he realized Sherlock hadn't answered in a while.

He inhaled sharply and used a loud voice, "Bloody hell! What did I just say?"

Sherlock grunted and sat up straighter, blinking his eyes open. "Wha… What?"

"Don't fall asleep, you clot!"

"I wasn't sleeping."

"Yes, you were! I saw you!"

"No… No, I was… No, I wasn't," Sherlock was beginning to speak incoherently. John's eyebrows knitted together in worry. The consulting detective needed medical care. John was sure of it. Either for a bad concussion or something much worse that could only be detected through an MRI scan. John wanted to let Sherlock sleep, but if he wasn't able to get to him, then his friend may not wake up. John learned from medical school that if a patient has a concussion, you must wake them up every quarter hour and ask them easy questions to make sure they are aware. In John's position, that would be impossible.

"Sherlock?" John asked steadily and concerned.

"John, do be a friend and give me your jacket," Sherlock interrupted quickly. John, figuring he was giving his winter coat to Sherlock for a much-needed pillow, happily tossed his only item of warmth through the bars and into Sherlock's cage. John watched Sherlock closely; noticing how his friend was tugging and pulling things on his coat.

"Sherlock, what are you-?" he was interrupted by the horrible sound of cloth ripping. "What are you doing?"

"Do not take me for a fool, John," Sherlock nearly spat out, his words still slurring. "This is a very poor example of a confinement. For idiots, nothing more."

John scrutinized Sherlock's movements in the darkness of the truck, but couldn't make out what he was doing. Within moment, Sherlock's cage had been opened. Conspicuously proud, Sherlock walked out of his cage with ease. However, the truck's tires hit a bump in the rode and caused the now-standing-Sherlock to stumble backwards and tumble forwards, right next to John's cage. Having a concussion didn't help, as John noticed Sherlock was unable to stop his fall and simply hit the metal floor, grunting as his shoulder made contact. Once the rumbling had stopped, John expected to see the consulting detective get up and unlock his own cage, but nothing of the sort happened.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Just the… the nausea and dizzy spells," Sherlock answered weakly and John noticed his friend was covering his mouth tightly, as if to hold something in.

"Unlock mine, Sherlock. Then I'll take care of you, I promise," John reassured, certain that he would. Sherlock, shaking vigorously, managed to balance on his knees and unlock John's cage. Instantly, Sherlock collapsed, as if all his energy was put into freeing John.

John examined Sherlock like doctor he was and came to the following diagnosis: Grade III concussion; head trauma, continuous bleeding, loss of consciousness, unequal dilation of pupils, could be a result of lesions, but unlikely. John retrieved his jacket and placed Sherlock's head on top of it, trying to keep it still and comfortable. After making sure he was still breathing and simply unconscious, John elevated Sherlock's feet by putting them on a pile of empty boxes found around the cages.

"How is he?"

John nearly cried out and attacked the man in the remaining cage, but stopped it on instinct. Richard Brooke pressed his face in between the bars of his own cage, looking sincere to his words.

John was hesitant, but answered, "Not well. Bad hit to the head. He won't be much help to us now. I'm sure he'll be unconscious for a while."

"How can one man be much help, anyhow?" Brooke questioned.

John chuckled lightly as he bunched up his jacket for more cushion. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

A silence followed John's reply. Without the proper materials, John wasn't going to get anywhere with Sherlock's treatment. And it wasn't like he could just open up the back of the truck and hop out of a moving vehicle with Sherlock in his arms.

John suddenly remembered something. "This woman certainly gave you the slip. First two dates and she's already sending you to a human auction."

"Amelia Lockehart," Brooke said absent-mindedly.

"What?"

"Amelia Lockehart's her name. She fooled me, alright. I thought she loved me," Brooke explained solemnly and looked absolutely crestfallen. John couldn't help but understand. The doctor tried oh so many times to find the right woman, but they always left him when they met Sherlock. Sarah was the only one to stick around for longer than three weeks.

"I'll get us out of here." John was looking straight into Brooke's eyes. "But, I need to figure out how Sherlock got us out of the cage."

John carefully lifted his friends head to retrieve his jacket and examined it. "Good God. Where in the hell did he learn to do this?"

John nearly laughed at the monstrosity of a lock pick made out of the sewing's and metals made out of John's zipper. Sherlock was certainly quite the character. John grinned at Brooke, now that he knew how to open his cage. It was time to fight back.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0O

"Yoohoo! Boys!" Amelia called as Tucker opened the back. "We're here!"

The door to the back was not even half way open when a figure the size of a man dove out and tackled Tucker to the ground after a loud battle cry. Brooke hopped down from the truck, carrying Sherlock on his back.

"Stop! Stop!" Amelia cried, waving her arms around frantically, though helpless to do anything to two grown men. John delivered a short, stubborn, and powerful punch to Tucker's chin and the man was out cold.

"Go, Brooke!" John ordered in his commanding voice. He was almost taken back to his military days, but a quick look at the limp Sherlock slung around Richard's shoulders made him stay. Brooke sprinted across the highway and into the forest, much slower because of Sherlock's dead weight on his back. John scanned the area, looking for the other man that might come up behind him, but didn't come in time.

"Stop! Stop, you bastards!" Amelia hollered, running after John in her high heels. She ran and tripped miserably in vain.

John had disappeared into the forest.


	3. Unleashing the Fires of Hell

**Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! They certainly helped me right this chapter! Also, I want to know if anyone feels the humor I'm trying to put in. It's a long shot, but I'm just hoping I'm putting it in for a good reason. I just feel that Sherlock and John would have some kind of banter, even if it's through a tough situation. Alright, so I've decided my chapters will be updated every Saturday. Please enjoy!**

**Chapter 3**

**Unleashing the Fires of Hell**

John retreated into the forest, breathing heavily as he arrived in the presence of Richard and Sherlock. Well, a semiconscious Sherlock. Still hanging from Richard's shoulder, Sherlock's eyes opened and then closed, opened and then closed. He was wrestling with the darkness that tried to sweep over him, obviously. John frowned at the painful look his friend gave him.

"What do we do now?" Richard asked between short gasps of air. John was thoroughly surprised the malnourished man was able to carry Sherlock so far into the forest.

"We need to keep moving," John informed, taking Sherlock from Richard and heaving the tall, however frail, man onto his back, Sherlock's arms slung over each of John's shoulders and John hooked his arms around the inside of the consulting detective's knees. "It won't be long before they come back for us."

John began walking, but trudging would be the better word. Although John served in the war and was quite healthy indeed, carrying someone twice your height with such short build was far from easy. With Sherlock's chin digging into John's shoulder; it only made it more difficult. Richard followed closely behind and glanced behind him every thirty seconds.

"John." John didn't stop moving, but he turned his head slightly to eye Sherlock's face on his shoulder. The detective's eyes were still closed and his word was faint and hoarse. The bleeding to his head was beginning to drip down his chin and soaked John's shirt.

"What is it?" John asked, turning back to face the path that lay before him. He was careful not to trip over the tree roots or twigs, or he might drop his friend.

"Ask Brooke," Sherlock breathed on John's ear, which made the war hero flinch and felt uncomfortable, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't manage talking for much longer. "Ask him… ask him to…"

"Enough, Sherlock," John encouraged, just missing a root and hopped over it. "Stop thinking about work for just a moment, ok? We have to get the hell out of here."

"Here, being where, exactly?" Brooke entered the conversation with a meek voice before peeking over his shoulder for the fifty-third time.

John took a look around, but finding nothing but dead trees, leaves, and branches didn't give him enough to go on. The doctor was thoroughly confused. He tried to remember if their captors had said anything that would hint where they were, but nothing came up. John cursed himself for not having a decent memory.

After an hour, John's sore body was beginning to feel the weight of Sherlock and his pace slowed considerably. It was only a matter of time before he wouldn't be able to carry his friend. John prayed it wouldn't be too soon. John's hands kept, embarrassingly, slipping from underneath Sherlock's' thighs and he had to hop to get Sherlock's body in a more comfortable position.

"I don't believe we're being followed," Richard offered up his opinion.

"Unfortunately, we shouldn't stop moving based on a hunch," John replied wearily. John glanced up at the sky and realized it was already getting dark. "Right, so… we should set up camp over there."

John never felt so helpful than he did for the few hours after their escape. His army training came in handy and he set up a camp site with little effort, having done so in the scorning heat and desert sands in Afghanistan. Setting up camp in a lush, dry forest was as easy as it was for Sherlock to read a person. John was able to set two tents by leaning many branches against a tree and overlapping each other. Richard offered to strike a fire, but John refused to let him do it. The smoke would lead the slave traders right to them.

Richard was already sleeping in one of the tents while Sherlock's limp body was lying in the other. John stayed outside, on watch. It was challenging to see through the darkness, but John's keen ears would pick up rustling from a quarter mile away.

All through the night, John never felt tired. He was all too used to situations as this that it almost made him feel he was back in the war. As the morning sun began to rise over the horizon, sending puzzles of light through the tree leaves, John woke up Richard and after picking Sherlock up, who had slept soundly, the three were on their way again. However, John's arms were sore from yesterday's carry, so he was having a hard time keeping Sherlock's feet from scraping against the ground.

"Do you need any help?" Richard asked before yawning.

"No." John's answer was quick and precise. He was a bit irritated from the lack of sleep, but he'd manage for at least the rest of the day.

"Where are we?" Sherlock breathed out and John could almost hear the nausea in his voice.

"I don't know, Sherlock," John answered pessimistically, keeping his own voice low. "But I'm getting us out of here."

There was a light, weak chuckle coming from the consulting detective. "Please, John. Don't say… such stupid things. Without a location… how do you know… that you haven't been circling about?"

John stopped dead in his tracks and nearly dropped the limp body on his back. Bloody Hell, Sherlock was right. What if he indeed was going in circles? They must've travelled at least fifteen miles since escaping, but they haven't seen a damn sign of civilization yet!

Through John's musings, a faint rustle made his head shoot to the left. Silence followed immediately after John had turned.

"Richard…" John called out in a whisper.

"What?"

"Did you remember to destroy our camp?"

"… Define destroy."

"Yes, good. Right. Well, it usually means to leave nothing left."

"Then no."

As if on cue, a deafening gunshot blasted through the dense forest and John almost dropped Sherlock. Two men came rushing out of the bushes, brandishing pistols and yelling a battle cry. Sadly, for them, John didn't want to battle. He simply wanted to get the hell out of there.

"Run!" John ordered Richard and he took off as fast as his legs could carry both Sherlock and himself. Richard followed shortly behind, but suddenly, a shot pierced through Richard's back and it came out of his stomach area. The ex-boyfriend of Amelia Lockehart fell to the ground, motionless. John, hardened from war, saw such a thing happen but continued to run. He and Sherlock would become slaves if he stopped. And without the proper medical attention, Sherlock's injury could become much worse.

John was so engorged in getting them out of there, that he barely heard a second shot and he barely felt the bullet rip through his shoulder until seconds after it happened. A painful cry echoed through the forest and John fell to one knee with wide eyes. It was the same shoulder that was shot during his time spent in Afghanistan. His PTSD was starting to act up and John could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The forest around him was devoured and melted, revealing the dunes of Afghanistan in its wake.

John was there. John was back in the war and he was carrying an injured soldier. All around him were the corpses of his friends and after hearing a cry from one of the two Afghans chasing him, John picked himself back up and ran, still holding the injured soldier. The pain in his shoulder cried and whipped and roared in pain and it felt like the fires of hell were unleashed on John's shoulder.

The Afghans were catching up. It would only be a matter of time before-

John's thoughts stopped abruptly when his body suddenly weighed nothing. Sherlock's body suddenly weighed nothing. The PTSD showed him tumbling down the sand dunes, but when water sprayed his face, John realized he and Sherlock were riding down a water fall. John's mind was blank. He blinked once and as his body slammed into the pool below the white mist, his vision went dark.


	4. So Damn Close

**Author's Note: Hey, guys! ****So, it turns out I'll be on a vacation this Saturday, so I won't be able to update my story then. That's why I've decided to finish it and update it now!** Thanks for all the reviews! In this chapter, Sherlock's concussion symptoms start to wear thin and it's time for Sherlock to help John! Also, just as a heads up, if you like this story, you're sure to love my other ones! I hope to do the characters justice! Enjoy and please review!

**Chapter 4**

**So Damn Close**

The first thing John was aware of was the inability to breathe. He tried to suck in air, but a strange liquid filled his mouth and choked his lungs. The second thing he was aware of was the pain striking his shoulder like a fiery liquid. The last thing he was aware of was the darkness. It was so dark. He was only aware of these things for a few seconds, and then he felt nothing.

Time shifted again, but for how long? John would never know. It could've been a single second for all he knew. Again, John was aware of very little; the darkness, the pain, the struggling sensation in his lungs. His body felt weightless until his back hit against something very hard with a thud. Within what felt like a few seconds, something soft and cold was pressed against his mouth and his lungs blew up like a balloon, only to release the newly arrived without honestly taking it. A dull, pushing feeling pressed upon his chest many times, loosening his tight lungs. The same soft thing pressed on his lips and his lungs blew up again.

That was when John felt the water. He felt the water choking him and strangling him, so upon instinct, his body shot up and he vomited the liquid that tried to kill him. Gasping and choking, John's senses were slowly returning. The first of which was feeling. A painful grunt escaped his mouth and he fell back to the ground, grabbing his bloody shoulder unconsciously, trying to ease the rippling pain.

"It's about time," a familiar voice coughed. It was low and soothing and immediately John knew it was Sherlock. John opened his eyes to the dark sky, save the bright moon and shining stars.

"My… my shoulder," John wheezed up, pleading. His PTSD continued attacking him, but as Sherlock's pale, bloodied face leaned over his, it stopped as if it was scared away.

"Please, John. A bullet to the shoulder? That's how you plan to die?" Sherlock scoffed, leaning away. "What a pathetic way to leave this world, wouldn't you say? At least Mr. Brooke took it to the chest."

John immediately felt a ping of guilt and sadness. Richard was a kind, innocent man who didn't deserve to die such a way. "How… How did you-?"

"My symptoms are shying away," Sherlock explained. "I just have a pounding headache and some dizziness and nausea, but nothing I can't ignore."

"You probably shouldn't ignore it," John warned, but knew the consulting detective wouldn't listen. The doctor struggled to sit up, but managed all by himself. He took advantage of the silence to scan his surroundings. Just to his left was the lake he and Sherlock fell into and surrounding them was rows and rows of dark, leafless trees. "How did you know about Richard? I thought you were unconscious."

Sherlock turned away to face the lake, his pale skin shining in the darkness and his eyes glimmering in the shadows of his dark hair. "I was. I awoke on the side of this shoreline. Odd, isn't it? And here I thought I could trust you with my body."

John's face blushed and his brows furrowed in dismay at Sherlock's comment. "Yes, right, well, never say that again."

The consulting detective looked confused for a moment or two, but complied with a short nod and continued, "I travelled up that embankment over there to find Mr. Brooke's body. His partner's lackeys were gone, probably fled after we fell. Morons. As if we'd die from such a short fall."

"Short fall?" John cried in disbelief and sat up, leaning against a tree trunk. "That's bloody near twenty feet!"

"With nothing but water? No rocks unless you count the ones at the bottom. Use your head, John. A person can kill themselves entering water from a height as low as just a few feet. How one enters the water is a big factor, as is whether or not the water is still. Also the depth of the water is a major factor. I reckon we went in legs first into still water. Hardly any trouble at all."

John blinked twice and understood his friend. "How are you doing, Sherlock? A concussion's effects can last up to months."

Sherlock frowned at John in a very disapproving way. "Yes, and they can last for a couple hours. A day and a half is more than enough time for me to heal." Sherlock paused. "Though I do feel very faint and nauseas. The better question is: How do you feel, John?"

The doctor was surprised by Sherlock's kindness towards him. When did Sherlock ever really care about John? "Well, I-"

"Good," Sherlock interrupted. "To your feet, John. We haven't got much more darkness to travel in. Daylight will rise and once I can tell us where we are, we'll be on the road back home."

John nodded absent-mindedly, discouraged about what Sherlock said due to the pain and bleeding in his shoulder. It wouldn't be much longer before the blood loss would affect his speed. Sherlock, despite having actually not cared for John's condition, placed two hands on the doctor and helped him to his feet. Sherlock quickly tore off his own jacket and wrapped it once around John's injured arm and then tied to sleeves together behind his neck, creating a very helpful sling.

"Thanks," John muttered wearily. "Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't looking at John when he gave his reply. "It's nothing, John. After all, you are my dear friend."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The sun was just rising over the horizon when Sherlock and John stepped onto a road; most likely the same road they were travelling on while they were in the storage cart. John stole a glance at Sherlock; he was clammy and sheen of sweat could faintly be seen on his pale skin. John wasn't able to see the other side of Sherlock's face, which was coated with blood from the injury that caused his concussion. John then scanned the surroundings; the simple two-way road with nothing but forest otherwise.

"Maybe you should lie down," John suggested, taking notice to the difficulty breathing Sherlock was having. Of course, being shot in the shoulder was very painful indeed, but it was, thankfully, only a flesh wound. The only thing to worry about was the bleeding out. However, for Sherlock, head trauma could be a very lasting and testy injury. It could give permanent damage to Sherlock's brain; affecting his eyes, ears, possibly any few of the five senses. John was worried, and Sherlock was able to pick up on that.

"Please, John. We're nearly there!" Sherlock exclaimed and moved down the road. John portly followed.

Despite Sherlock's excitement it was an hour and a half of silent walking until they found a telephone booth. Sherlock picked up the phone and dialed a number. John watched the numbers he pressed; it was obvious he was going to call Lestrade, and the first few numbers were indeed correct. However, after the first three digits, his finger began trembling and he missed all the numbers he should've hit.

"Sherlock," John took hold of his friend's hand, trying to restrain its trembles. "Let me."

Sherlock glared at John, seeming almost embarrassed by his vulnerability, but decided to let John take lead. The doctor took the phone with his uninjured hand and dialed the numbers with the same hand and then pressed it to his ear. He tensed, hoping it would work in such a distance.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade?" John asked, suddenly realizing how hoarse his voice was.

"Detective Inspector to you. Who's calling?"

"It's John!"

"John? Bloody hell! Where have you been? Is Sherlock with you? Where are you?"

John was overrun with questions but simply answered, "I'll explain once you've gotten us. Sherlock? Where are we?"

No answer.

"Sherlock?" John turned around to see Amelia Lockehart holding a stiletto to Sherlock's neck and using her other hand to set his shoulder. The atmosphere was engulfed in a tense silence. The only noise was Lestrade's voice on the other line, asking for their location.


	5. Counterfeit Strength

**Author's Note: Hey, guys! This'll be the last chapter! I hope it's intense enough for you guys! Please do let me know what you think! If you have any prompts about Sherlock that you'd like to see, feel free to message your idea to me and I'll give it a shot. :) Also, I finished this chapter early and I just couldn't let you guys wait. As always, I hope to do the character's justice.**

**Chapter 5**

**Counterfeit Strength**

"My pals will be back soon," Amelia warned with a devilish smile. "If blondie here gets too close for comfort, I can always do with just one piece of merchandise."

John froze in mid-step and gnawed his teeth. Sherlock's neck was already bleeding from the slight prick of the weapon and honestly, John didn't know what to do. In Sherlock's condition, there was no way he was thinking straight. He wouldn't be able to think of how to get out of her grasp without slitting his throat.

"Please," John begged, sticking out his hands to show he wasn't trying anything. "Don't do this."

Amelia nearly laughed her head off, almost cutting deeper into Sherlock's jugular. "A quarter million pounds per person? I'd be quite the moron to stop now!"

"You'd also be a moron to continue," Sherlock struggled to provoke. This sent Amelia into an enraged spiral. She kicked the consulting detective full-force on the knee and John winced at the snap. Sherlock fell to the ground like a limp ragdoll with a pained cry. Angered by Amelia's attack, John took a step forward, but the woman simply held her knife to Sherlock's neck once again, having to kneel beside his crumbled body.

"Uh-uh, blondie," Amelia said. "Another step and I'll slit his throat."

John was furious with the slave trader, but he couldn't help but be angry with Sherlock, as well. He was the one who angered Amelia Lockehart in the first place.

"John!"

John jumped at the loud voice. It was indeed Lestrade from the telephone loose in John's hand.

"Hang it up," Amelia demanded with a low tone. John complied.

"John! We've got your-!" Lestrade's voice ended when the phone clicked into place. John stepped out of the booth and eyed Amelia and then glanced at Sherlock. He looked much frailer than he usually did, which was strange to look at. His lips were chattering and the funny way his knee was bent, John was certain Miss Lockehart had dislocated it.

The ex-soldier immediately scanned the area, in search of useful information; the two-way road they were on was around a bend and a simple foot-thick rail separated them between a sixty foot drop into the rocky river below. Behind John and the phone booth was the forest. Not much help there, unless the doctor wanted to run, which he didn't. He wanted to save his best friend. However, they had an unknown amount of limited time. Lockehart's goons would show up any moment, but if John moved forward, she would kill Sherlock. John was in a bind; a terrible, gut-wrenching bind.

"Wow, a closer look at you and you're one hell of a catch, huh?"

Amelia Lockehart's low, lustful voice broke John's train of thought and his eyes focused back on her. The woman leaned down to Sherlock, gripped his chin and forced his neck to twist towards her so she could get a better look at his face. The turn allowed John to see the bloodied side of his best friends face, but the expression on his face, as well. He looked determined and angry at the same time. Not unusual for Sherlock, but his glimmering blue eyes seemed to dull into a cloudy gray as he stared at Lockehart.

"I think I might sell you for a higher price. With your behavior, I'm sure some wealthy men would love for you to be their dog. A bit of training will do you good," Amelia informed with a smile and John felt sick to his stomach. However, as Amelia was inspecting Sherlock in the most inappropriate way, John knew it was time to take action. The slave trader wasn't paying attention as her greedy hands groped Sherlock's thighs and stroked his back, so John sprinted forward, nearly unaware of the pain spiking his shoulder.

With something close to a battle cry, John dove for the woman, tackling her feet away from Sherlock. Unfortunately, she hadn't let go of the stiletto. They rolled around until John's back hit the railing near the edge of the cliff. Amelia sat on top of the doctor, all hands on the knife, two of them trying to drive it into John's chest and the other pair trying to keep them away. The pain in John's shoulder was keeping him from tearing the knife away with brute force. In frustration, John turned his head through the struggling to see Sherlock still lying in the middle of the highway, motionless.

"You bastard!" Amelia cursed and John's focus went back to keeping the dagger from piercing his heart. The woman was as strong as an ox, sadly. "Why must you stop me from my work? You're an average shmuck!"

John was too busy keeping himself alive to answer. He would've laughed if he had the strength and he thought it was interesting that the word 'shmuck' had survived the millennium. In the midst of struggling where the sharp end of the stiletto was heading, John heard something. Something so terrible that he felt even weaker and allowed the knife to come closer to his heart.

It was the sound of many tires treading the road and rumbling ever closer to the turn the three of them were on. John glanced back at Sherlock, who hadn't moved and who was in the left side of the lane. Around the bend, the driver wouldn't be able to see the limp body in the middle of the road. The consulting detective would be run over.

"Sherlock!" John yelled out. "Sherlock!"

To John's horror, there was no answer. The rumbling only got louder and louder. Using his last ounce of strength, John released one hand from the stiletto and for a split second, as it was plunging down towards his chest, he grabbed Amelia's wrist and twisted it. Crying with pain, the woman staggered back, only to trip over the railing and disappear from John's sight down the ravine. John's instincts took over and he stumbled to his feet. In his peripheral vision, he could see the red truck turning the corner. The adrenaline was pumping through him and even though the last of his strength was used to send Amelia Lockehart tumbling to her death, he was able to mold the need to save his friend into counterfeit strength.

With the headlights of the truck blinding him and the sound of the horn blazing, John sprinted towards Sherlock and as his arms scooped under Sherlock's thin torso and he pushed with his legs, his vision went blank.

John felt many things in that eternal second; fear, excitement, concern, weakness. It was only when his injured shoulder hit the side of the road did he feel complete and utter relief. He had made the dive with Sherlock wrapped in his arms. The truck whizzed by them and the truck driver stuck his head out of the window to yell profanity's that faded into the distant.

Once the adrenaline started to cool down, John laughed breathlessly, thankful he and Sherlock were both safe from harm. Unfortunately, John spoke too soon.

"Where the hell is the Boss?"

John remained in a lying position with his best friend still within his arms. However, his heart nearly jumped to his throat as he made eye contact with Tucker and the other goon with shortly cropped hair. Tucker had a handgun trained on John as he moved in closer.

As if on cue, police sirens blazed the highways and skidded to a stop yards away from the four of them. Nearly all car doors opened and officers popped up with their guns trained on Tucker and the other guy.

"Drop your weapons!" Lestrade yelled with an authority tone.

The rest of the day ended like a lucid dream to John. Lestrade had phoned an ambulance to give Sherlock immediate medical care and John was patched up with ease and put on pain killers. John could remember asking how Lestrade had found them and the answer was quite simple; he had traced their call.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A week later, Sherlock was finally released from the hospital. He seemed particularly more agitated than normal, but John knew that that meant everything was just getting back to the way it was. The doctor was seating at their dining table with his injured arm in a sling and his laptop open in front of him. Sherlock was passing by when he stopped short at what he read on the computer screen.

"Kidnapped?" Sherlock said in disbelief. "Really, John. Want to think of something more creative?"

John scoffed happily. "Well, what would you prefer the title to be?"

Sherlock honestly thought about it for a moment and with a smile, he answered, "Why not 'For Once, John is Somehow Able to Save the Day?'"

They both shared a laugh.


End file.
